A Hero Exists
by Captain Vox
Summary: MAJOR SPOILERS: After The Fall, John's mindset begins to change and develop, Sherlock's emotional grid widens, and new persons enter our Heroes lives. Soon two men, two of the greatest friends, will find themselves as heroes...one way or another. Sherlock and Molly/John and new character. M for later chapters.
1. Inheritance

The Inheritance:

"You … you told me once … that you weren't a hero. Umm… There were times when I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human ... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so ... there. I was so alone ... and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't…be ... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop _this…_"

It had been three weeks since the last time John Watson had stepped foot in the two two one B Baker Street flat. Mrs. Hudson opened the door upon his third knock, hair frazzled and eyes bloodshot. She'd not been doing well, that much was apparent. John hadn't been doing any better. The stubble across his chin was noticeable in the light and the backs of his knuckles were scrapped raw.

"Oh, John. Yes, I thought you'd…well your things, dear. I just… come in. It's still, well everything is there. Where Sher- um, he left it."

John tried to smile for her, reaching out a hand and laying it onto her shoulder. "Thank you, ."

Her eyes lifted as he spoke, and he knew she was thinking what he was. His voice was raspy, not what it used to be, and he sounded odd for it. Following her in, John walked through the hall, letting his hand drag across where he'd first really laughed with Sherlock. He creaked up the familiar stairs. He pushed open their door. The flat was the same. A little more dust had settled perhaps, but it was all the same nonetheless.

"Not a damn thing's changed." He hadn't meant to say it aloud.

"I couldn't bring myself to touch anything. I said I'd donate his science things, but every time I came in, I couldn't do it. Didn't make it past the doorway."

Call it lost in thought, but John stepped in and shut Mrs. Hudson out, literally. He needed to be alone with all of this. That's all he ever was now, even with everyone running about him, consoling him, trying to get him to the real world. They were right, and they'd always been right, no matter how he'd denied it. He had been in a relationship with Sherlock. John wasn't gay, he'd never been with a bloke, and had never wanted to. This relationship he'd had with Sherlock wasn't what everyone thought it was- but it was there, so undeniably there and now John Watson was alone. Self-pity can do marvelous things to a person's mind. It changes a man a lot of times. It was changing him. John could hear Sherlock in his head, feel his moods, and his restlessness.

Walking through the parlor into the kitchen, John let his hands trail over the dusty vials. One was still filled with some liquid now turned an eerie orange. His mind was starting to buzz, like bees or white noise had settled in the space between his ears. A notebook was sitting next to the test tubes; it had Sherlock's scrawling, almost effeminate, writing. Picking it up, John started reading over the experiment notes. This one had been recent, and the reason Sherlock had sent him out to get another container of milk. John was glad he hadn't actually drunk the tea with what had been in the old container of milk. The experiment, now that he had the notes before him, wasn't that complicated. He wasn't sure yet of its purpose, but following along and continuing it wouldn't be hard at all.

Three hours later there was a knock at the door, pulling John away from the notebooks, the vials, the chemicals, and something that was rotting in the fridge. Not food, that was for sure.

"Yes, it's open!" He put his face back down into the microscope. The oddest little chemical reaction was going on between the dirt from some container marked "John's jogging shoes" and a powder marked "for John's jogging shoes".

Mrs. Hudson barged her way in with a tray of biscuits, tea, and some freshly sliced deli meats. "Thought you could use something to eat. You've been here a while. Mind you, I'm still not your housekeeper. Especially if you're not living here anymore."

John looked up as if he hadn't heard it, and it did take him a few moments to realize what she'd said. "Ah, thanks. And I think I will be staying here. Hospital's been paying well and I still have some money left over from what Sherlock gave me for cases we'd worked on."

"Oh yes, I forgot, Mycroft stopped by with a letter for you about an hour ago. I'll pop back down and get it for you."

Watching her go, he puzzled over this. He hadn't spoken to Mycroft since he'd hounded him about destroying Sherlock's reputation. What could he possibly want with John now? The very thing that had kept them together was buried beneath the ground, too stubborn to pull himself up and prove to John he wasn't just an ordinary man, but a God who couldn't be beaten.

When Mrs. Hudson came back and handed the letter over, she left him alone with it. He took it to the couch, stretching across it much like he used to watch Sherlock do. Shame he didn't have the blue robe on to sulk in. Tearing open the envelope, two neatly folded letters rest inside. One had John's name on it, so naturally that was opened first. It was from Mycroft.

Dear Dr. Watson,

I am sending you this letter not in hopes of some reconciliation between us. You and I have no business anymore. I am sending this to you, because my baby brother made it abundantly clear it was yours, and no longer mine. I was surprised to learn I had been in it at all, honestly. He loved you, Dr. Perhaps not the way normal people love, but in his own way, he loved you. Fair well, Dr. Watson. It was a pleasure while it lasted.

M.H.

John read the letter over once more, trying to decide if his suspicions were right. He could open the second letter and all would be revealed. He wouldn't have to sit and guess. Sherlock couldn't have left him everything. But then, who else would he leave it to after taking his brother off the will?

The second letter was Sherlock Holmes' will, and John was the soul benefactor, aside from a couple little trinkets that were to be sent to some address John knew nothing about. John would find out what was at the address eventually, but for now he couldn't tear his eyes away from the number that was to go into John's bank account. Sherlock did not need a flat-mate. Sherlock did not need a flat. He could have owned any building he wanted, anywhere he wanted. John had long ago suspected that Sherlock had wanted a flat-mate for something other than money, but this proved it beyond a doubt. John would be set for ages.

Suddenly his chest ached.

John put the paper aside and sunk back further into the couch. "Damn it." He sighed. With a whirling mind he lifted his hands beneath his chin, steepling his fingers.

Nearly two months later there was a knock on the door. John pulled up from his computer, closing the lid on The Science of Deduction. He was in the blue robe and a pair of shorts, a pen stuck behind his ear. Lestrade stood outside of the door. He had a serious look on his face, the one that John recognized from the times he had to ask Sherlock for help.

"I didn't know who else to go see. We've got a case and it's something that Sherlock would have come for. You were the one that helped him…."

John blinked at him. "Uh, you want me to…to do what _he_ did?"

The DI shrugged. "Yes. Wouldn't ask if we weren't at such a loss."

"Yeah, alright. Let me put some proper clothes on." John pulled the door open further, letting Lestrade inside.

He came back down in jeans, the cream-corded jumper, and leather patched jacket. He may be trying to do what Sherlock was doing, but that didn't mean he had to dress like him. The robe was a sentimental and private matter. He went over to the desk and rooted around a moment. Grabbing the little magnifying glass Sherlock used, John slipped it in his pocket. He added a notebook and pen. His gun was carefully set in a holster on his lower back, under the jumper. One could never be too careful; he _was_ getting back into crime again.

A man lying face down in a mud puddle, suit dirtied but in tact, was what met him at this scene. John stood back, looking at it carefully, then started to glance about the scene as he'd watched Sherlock do many a time. There were footprints he made note of, large dog paws among human shoed prints. He kept things straight on a voice recorder, knowing that he wouldn't have the memory for the details as Sherlock did. He saw Donovan and Anderson watching him and suddenly felt like he was in Sherlock's shoes. Donovan watched him with those same cold eyes she regarded the Consulting Detective with, once upon a time.

John wasn't sure someone could become a sociopath, but he was certainly feeling like one now. He shut them off, apparently better than Sherlock could because John didn't need the others to turn away from him. Getting closer to the body he leaned down and just sat crouched for a few long moments, trying to get into the headspace he'd seen Sherlock go into then set to work.

He started at the feet, noting the worn down tread but lack of mud caking the bottoms. So the body was dumped here. John's own feet were sticking in the wet dirt ground. The outside of the right sole was worn down further than the other, perhaps the man had a limp. His clothing was soaked, but that made perfect sense considering the weather and current conditions he lay in. Moving up the body, John picked up the man's hand and looked at it closely. He had the distinct indentations on his pointer and middle finger that marked him as a man who used a pen or pencil often. It also marked him left handed. Looking at the face in the mud, John saw the obvious wound to the head, possible bullet hole in the right temple, and he remembered a previous case with Sherlock, and so deduced that the man was shot by someone else. "Murder, definitely," he murmured. Stepping back, he felt this was the best he'd be able to do for the time being. He would wait until the body was moved back and evidence was gathered, then take a closer look if Lestrade would allow it.

"You're sure?" Lestrade asked, coming up next to him and blinking heavily at the body near their feet. He was holding the gun in a plastic baggy. "This was found near him." He held it up so John could see.

"Positive…" John paused and crouched back down, noting the tip of something white sticking from the man's pocket. Having his black leather gloves on, he pulled the paper out and unfolded it. It was a suicide note in a scrawling handwriting that he was sure Sherlock would have described as feminine. The paper itself had a faded and waterlogged logo in the top left and John pulled out the magnifying glass to get a better look. "Hmm." He stared a long moment before handing the standard printer page over to Lestrade. Then he took out his phone and started walking away. "A few ideas, I'll get back to you when I have something definitive, or if I need to look at more of the evidence."

John could almost feel Lestrade's gaze following him, and he heard without a doubt Donovan say, "Great… we've got a Freak back."

It struck John as slightly odd that her saying so did not bother him as much as it always had when she would give Sherlock that title. He lifted a hand over his shoulder, without turning about, and gave her a wave. "Nice to see you again, too Donovan."

He had to stop, nearly tripping over himself when he got to the crime scene tape. No one was there lifting it up for him. John had to remove his hands from his mobile and lift the damned thing himself. He rubbed at the center of his chest as he walked away from it all. Hailing a cab, John gave the 221 Baker Street address and poured over his phone, looking for a missing man from a large business with a limp. Definitely worked in London, though his second hand clothes spoke more of a country living. And John had caught a whiff of baked bread and bus fumes, which seemed to have melted into the man's every day clothing dictating a routine strictly followed.

It took John half an hour, once he was back at the flat, to determine the paper was from a junior school Reedings, which resided in Sawbridgeworth, a bus trip away from Harlow, a growing city with a few well-known bakeries. From there, the transport system was diverse in getting you to London. Not to mention well priced. John was surprised at himself for not having picked this whole deduction thing up much earlier. Then again, he hadn't needed to, had he? Sherlock had been around for that.

In any case, he had the "where" down, but nothing else. Surely he'd missed everything of importance at any rate. John called Lestrade and relayed the information he'd found, then returned to digging. There had to be a "why" to all of this. He would have to leave the flat again, make his way to Molly and see if she would lend him help as she had leant to Sherlock.

John Watson's newfound talents were starting to emerge and hopefully those who helped develop Sherlock Holmes' name would likewise develop John as a Consulting Detective.


	2. She Mattered

She Mattered:

"You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay."

"Tell me what's wrong." Her gaze penetrated him and Sherlock trembled.

"Molly, I think I'm going to die."

"What do you need?" She could make his hair stand on end with just a few simple words.

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?" He knew she wouldn't now. Surely, after everything John had told him he'd done wrong, after Christmas…

"What do you need?"

"You."

It had been a few months since that conversation, and Sherlock was now sprawled on Molly's couch, staring at the ceiling with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. The texture above was not like the texture of 221B, but it was still interesting enough. It gave his mind something to run across while the six nicotine patches worked their way into his system. His brain was going to become mush. He needed a distraction, but Molly was at Bart's for another few hours. Sherlock was alone.

Alone. Just as he'd left John Watson. The last words he'd heard from the man he'd heard from a distance, read from his angry lips. John had begged, and Sherlock could not give him that miracle. Not yet. While it was true that Moriarty was gone, for good this time, there was too much danger in revealing Sherlock's own not-so-demise. He'd gathered many an enemy, and Moriarty had obviously drug them back up from the depths of the underbelly of London. This life he was leading now, dead to the world, is what London needed for the time. It was what Sherlock needed in all his selfish agony.

He wasn't sure he could make it without Molly. Despite his enormous miscalculations with her, she still stood by him. She and only four others believed in him. Though now that he thought about it, Mycroft and Lestrade might be out of that equation now. His "suicide" rather played toward him being guilty, especially with a dead Rich Brooks on the rooftop. Or, at least a puddle of his blood. Of course, all of that is washed away now. They don't tend to leave that sort of mess lying about. People often got sensitive regarding death and gore.

Molly wasn't, which was good because slowly he was turning her kitchen into the one he'd had at Baker Street. She didn't put up with as much as John did, but she put up with enough to allow Sherlock to have his experiments and occupy his mind for brief moments. Sherlock hadn't been able to put another body part in the refrigerator since Molly had nearly mistaken the human liver for a nice cut of meat to put on the stove. Molly liked his violin at least…

He arched up over the arm of the couch and looked upside-down through the house. His violin sat against the chair in the dinning-room a few paces away. Reflexively, Sherlock called out, "John! Come get me my violin!" There of course, wasn't an answer. No footsteps approaching to show a disapproving face. No John.

"Damn." Sherlock climbed off the couch to retrieve the instrument himself. A light blue dressing gown flapped excitedly behind him. It wasn't long enough for his liking though, didn't come down to his ankles and allow for him to wrap up perfectly in it. He would have thrown a strop but there wasn't a soul about to be affected by it.

"Damn again."

Sherlock took the violin into his hands and strolled back to the living room where he had a stand with an unfinished symphony laying about it. He started in the middle and played further, stringing some notes together, erasing, and rewriting. This would at least keep his mind busy for some time. With all of the nicotine flooding his system, his brain was open and his eyes were taking in more than usual. He could practically see the notes floating off of the violin strings. The marched across his vision and placed themselves in position on the papers. When it became too much, when he saw all of it about him drowning out the rest of the room, Sherlock closed his eyes and gave over to his sense of hearing and touching.

He didn't hear the door opening. He didn't hear her footsteps across the floor. He was still standing in the middle of the living room with his eyes closed and ears tuned into the music. It was only when he felt a soft hand on his arm that Sherlock noticed her presence. He came out of the trance with a gasp, silver eyes snapping open and landing on her honeyed ones. "…Molly…"

"Sorry for em, interrupting. I was just, well I was home and just thought you should, you know…know." She never blushed, her pale skin staying soft under his gaze.

"No, you're fine. It's all fine." He swallowed hard at the familiar words. "I was going to make dinner, but lost track of the time." Sherlock pulled the violin from beneath his chin and set it back in the case, then loosened the bow and added that as well. Perhaps that was the truth, but perhaps he was just trying to be kind.

Molly just smiled and held up a bag in her hands. "Chinese, hope you don't mind." She turned away, her long ponytail bouncing with her movement. The jumper she wore bunched under her bag.

Sherlock followed her and snagged the bag from her shoulder with one hand, then straightened the probably uncomfortably bunched fabric with the other. "Just, on your desk, right?" He was already walking for it without awaiting an answer. She never did provide an answer, either. He could hear her getting plates down, silverware out, and opening paper and plastic containers of food.

"Just help yourself to anything." She was scooping white rice onto her own plate as Sherlock walked back over.

That was how their relationship had grown to be, and it had become that way quickly. They helped themselves to each other often. For example, the other day Sherlock was bent over a microscope looking at the chemical reaction of some unknown particles he'd found on the bottom of Molly's shoe. She came up next to him, dug into his pocket and pulled out his new falsely named credit card, now reading Seamus Abbey. He had, of course, needed a false identification. "I'm going to get breakfast things for tomorrow. Need anything?" she asked. Sherlock had said nothing, so she took the card and left for the store.

Another day Sherlock was thinking too much, had finished all of his projects, and was throwing a strop on the couch. Molly had come over then, too, and curled on the arm of the couch above his head, running her fingers through his hair. It had given Sherlock sensations to focus on, things new to him. No one had just sat quietly with him while he went through these moments and given themselves to him. She was as surprising as his John.

Now, sitting on the couches with the food spread between them on the coffee table, Molly and Sherlock grabbed what they wanted. Sherlock hadn't eaten in a couple of days so he knew he needed to eat now.

"I was thinking about all of this, Sherlock… shouldn't John know? Shouldn't your brother know?"

He bit down on the tines of his fork and grimaced. "Er, no Molly. I shouldn't tell them; then what would have been the point of doing this?"

She sighed and chewed her moo shu pork a little faster. Always polite. She swallowed, then spoke up again, "Why me, Sherlock? All you ever said was that I mattered. I just don't see how…"

He leveled her with a look that would have had John frowning and asking for the explanation of what he was missing. Molly, on the other hand, just stared back with those big inquisitive eyes.

"I already told you, you say the most horrible things to me…"

Sherlock actually laughed. It wasn't a big laugh, more of a chuckle from one side of his mouth and he looked over at her. "Molly, haven't you noticed that normal human communication is a bit beyond me? And most of the time I'm attempting it alone when I'm with you."

"It's not my forte either, but you could try being a little nicer to me is all." She picked up a sugared roll and bit into it, sugar brushing off on the sides of her mouth.

"You have…" Taking immediate response to her words, Sherlock cut himself off and just reached out to brush the powder away with two steady fingers.

Molly held the rest of the pastry between her fingers and blinked at him, then smiled. "Thank you."

Sherlock merely nodded and went back to his food. He finished quickly and then sat back, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms about his knees. Molly ate slowly, and she liked to turn on a science show while she ate.

Already forgetting her line of questioning, he turned to something of interest to him. Sherlock liked to watch her in her nightly ritual. He was taking mental notes about what piqued her interest, finding that she lifted her eyebrows up high when surprised. She also pouted her lips out a little and squished her eyebrows together when she didn't agree with something.

"That's wrong." She would mutter this occasionally and then follow it with some half-formed sentence about what was wrong with some science term or experiment. 

Agreeing with most of it, Sherlock added in his two penny's worth to see how she responded to that. It went a lot further than he'd thought it would. "Well… not quite Sherlock see if the-"

"You're not taking into account time-"

"Time only matters in this case as the-"

"Oh, yes of course," Sherlock said throwing his hands in the air. "If the reaction isn't-"

"Exactly, so they're going about it all wrong."

"Agreed." He smiled and settled back to watching her. She was smiling as well, and was leaning forward now, abandoning the rest of the food on the plate. Molly pushed the plate a little further away with her bare toes.

They sat in a subdued silence for a long time, and Sherlock felt his mind actually focusing on one thing at a time. It wasn't often that it did that. He tried to get it to quiet down by keeping himself immersed, but he just saw too much. Sitting on a couch with Molly, he could only see her. Did you know that her brown hair shimmered red in some light, especially the light of the television when all other lights were out? He liked that. Getting up, Sherlock dragged the Chinese remnants away from the table and turned out the lights before returning to the couch. Molly hadn't even stirred.

Sherlock didn't seem to realize that he was just standing there, by the couch, looking down at her. He realized this only when Molly turned her face up to him. "Aren't you going to sit again?"

"Hmm?" He folded his arms over his chest and stood a little taller. 

She pointed at the spot next to her. Sherlock's eyes glanced to it then back to Molly's. He pursed his lips tightly, turning them white with the pressure. Then he shook his head.

They kept their eyes locked for a long time. Minutes. Sherlock would blink long and lazily so that each time he opened his eyes again it was a completely new look at Molly's face. He loved that she could give him something so singularly distinct each time. He had always known she was spectacularly brilliant since the first day he'd stepped foot in the lab with her, but he hadn't wanted to look much closer until now. Her eyes were much brighter, clearer, than any others he'd come across. He wondered briefly if she would let him experiment on them, but brushed it away figuring anything he would try to do would be painful to her.

When she, apparently, realized that Sherlock wasn't going to sit down with her, Molly smiled softly at him and eased back on the couch. When he crouched down in front of her, reached out and slowly took her arm in his hands, fingers laying against her steady pulse, she barely blinked at him. He also found this fascinating. It appeared as if nothing he did could surprise her. He kept his long, pale fingers on her pulse point, and just felt her life flowing beneath him.

"You fascinate me."

Molly's pulse jumped and she pulled back a little. Her arm was still snug in his hand though, and Sherlock tried something else.

"I meant it when I said you matter. I meant it when I said you shouldn't get into another relationship."

She frowned and her pulse slowed. That wasn't quite what he expected. He thought it would quicken, that she would pull away from him. "I'm capable of having a relationship with another human being…"

"I know that. You're not following along."

She leaned closer. "So… you don't want me to have a relationship with anyone. You find me fascinating. Sherlock…"

"No, I'm not."

"But I really think you are."

"I'm married to my work."

It was Molly's turn to laugh. She laughed quite a bit, and her cheeks actually tinged pink. "I've been part of your work since the beginning. That's why I matter, isn't it? That's what I was missing this whole time. You treat me just like the rest of your work, bluntly and precisely opinionated. You comment to fix me, to perfect me. Which is why you don't hide from me. There's nothing to hide from me and-"

He cut her off with a kiss. Sherlock had leaned in, placing his hands on either side of Molly and put his lips gently to her talking ones. It was soft, just enough to make her stop the spilling of words that Sherlock hadn't wanted to speak himself. Now, he guessed, he didn't have to. It amazed him that she could find her way into his head so easily. Actually, it was quite terrifying.

The talents of Molly Hooper were just beginning to show themselves beyond her self-protecting walls. And Sherlock Holmes was letting his own walls drop in front of her.


	3. Quite Contrary

(A/N Wasn't all that happy with the details of this chapter so revamped it. Chapter 4 will also be looked at! Chapter 5 won't arrive until December, though. Unless I finish Nanowrimo early. Hope you enjoy this fixed chapter better!)

Quite Contrary:

One year after "The Fall" as he'd come to think of it as, John Watson was fully endorsed as a Consulting Detective. He even had business cards and regular visits to his flat by clients. The job at the surgery he'd kept for a time, but this business had picked up after he'd made a few key deductions in some of Lestrade's cases and made it in the paper. And, of course, calling himself a consulting detective over private investigator helped his cause. Perhaps he should feel guilty over stealing the title, but Sherlock had thrust it upon him anyway. Well, Sherlock had never called John such, but hadn't he been at Sherlock's side during most of the cases?

Currently, he was sitting in the oversized chair Sherlock had used while a new client sat before him in his old chair. John kept the Union Jack pillow with him though, resting his lower back against it. He had tea in one hand, the other cupped under it keeping his hands warm. He looked across the way at the crying woman, delicate, dabbing at her face with tissues. She'd grabbed them from the little table next to the chair, and felt sorry for her.

At least he knew he hadn't become a sociopath.

"I'm sorry, Mary was it?" John leaned forward in the chair, closer to her.

She nodded, sniffled. "Yes, Mary Morstan." She dabbed her eyes again, a little mascara smudging beneath her eye.

He offered her a sympathetic smile. "I can help you but only if you trust me. I understand your, uh, reluctance with this but I really am discreet. I have no reason to go against you."

Mary nodded and actually gave him a smile. "Of course, you're right Dr. Watson. Forgive me; this matter just has me frightened." She wiped her nose one last time and crumpled the tissue in one hand looking about briefly as if unsure of what to do with it.

John got to his feet and strolled to the long couch where a small rubbish bin sat. Picking it up, he carried it back and offered it to her. "Please, you can call me John." When the tissue found its way in the basket, he put it aside but still close enough to her chair were she to need it again. "Now, who are you afraid of?" He sank back in the chair and knew he'd caught on to something by the widening of her eyes.

"How did you… I didn't mention I was afraid of someone." She hiccupped a breath but sat up taller. The dress she wore was tight, but covered much of her and John could only imagine it was slightly restricting, pushing her towards better posture. The deep blue of it brought out the red around her crying eyes, the flushed color across her impossibly high cheekbones.

"How could I assume any differently? You're obviously terrified to mention a name." He looked at her with a thoughtful frown. "You're very well spoken, and well dressed, so you must know some people in very high positions. I would say you should go to them, but since you haven't I can only guess that whomever you're afraid of has connections where you would have gone looking for help." The white and black stripped long sleeve he had on was a bit warm in the confines of this room so he rolled the sleeves up on it and continued. "So, who are you running from Mary?"

"I'm not sure." Her bottom lip trembled. The quick breath in made her hollow cheeks stand out pale in the shadowing. A stray hair fell from the bun her hair was in and curled about her long chin, black and curled. She was exotically beautiful. It was her eyes that most enraptured John though. They stood out grey, almost shinning with the tears, and bright. "I am the heir to my father's significant fortune and he passed away three months ago. His will was just released, naming me the sole heir. Along with it came this…" She paused and reached into her purse, pulling out a piece of folded paper. 

John was fascinated by her mannerism, by the elegant way she spoke. She came from a lot of money, he knew that much without knowing what the business was that her family owned. Everything about her screamed upper class. He admitted only to himself that he was immediately and irrevocably attracted to this woman, though he doubted she would have anything to do with some nouveau riche working bloke like himself. Hell, despite the money he'd gotten from Sherlock, John had stayed in the flat and the only thing he spent a significant amount of money on was science experiments. He didn't look any different, he just happened to be able to afford this place on his own and get takeaway more often than before. That did mean less rows with the chip and pin machine. 

Leaning across the way between them, he took the proffered piece of paper and read it. It was clearly addressed to her and written in a very practiced hand. "A threat on your life for the contents of the will? Right," John said. "Well I think that accusation would have to be looked into. Is that what you're coming here for?" He pushed to the conclusion and watched her face carefully. 

"Yes. I mean no. Well, I'm not sure. I wanted protection really. And proof of what they're doing. Do you know what it's like to walk around looking over your shoulder every day?" She sniffled a little and John thought she might start crying again. He disliked that; wasn't ever sure what to do about it. "It's petrifying."

He nodded. "Yeah, I know the feeling." He smiled tightly as images from Afghanistan came tumbling back into his mind. "Why not go to Scotland Yard for help?"

"Well, because I've heard you're the best."

"Second best, really."

"Pardon?" She asked leaning forward again.

John cleared his throat. "Second best, in my opinion, but unfortunately the first committed suicide."

"Oh, right. Sherlock Holmes, wasn't it?" Mary nodded to her own question and folded her hands in her lap. "Well, then you're the best still living. I'd read about your cases, about what you could do, and I heard you used to be in the army so… it just makes sense, doesn't it?"

John chewed the inside of his cheek a moment then gave in with a nod. "S'pose so yes. Do you have a safe place to stay?"

Mary nodded her head and blushed. "I've been hoping from hotel to hotel. It's been safe enough."

"No." John shook his head and pushed himself up from the chair. "Let's get your stuff. I have an extra room here I can clean up for you while we work this out. If they decide to come after you then a hotel staff won't be able to keep you safe, now will they?"

Standing with him, Mary looked about. "And a bachelor's flat is safe?" Her voice was teasing.

Picking up on the tone, John smiled and patted his lower back. "When the bachelor carries a gun, yes it's very safe."

"I don't want anything…" Mary wrinkled her nose and slipped an arm through John's elbow so he could walk her back down the stairs and to a cab. "Nothing indecent, you hear?"

He gave her his biggest meaningful grin. "Of course not. Strictly business."

"Thank you, John Watson." 

It took only a few days for John and Mary to fall into a routine. The flat was the cleanest it had been in… ever, really. John had never actually seen it this clean. It was amazing how much room there could be when you picked up the books and science journals from the floor and got them onto shelves. The experiments scattered about were slowly compressed to John's room upstairs, which looked more like a lab with a bed and chiffonier.

Last night the two of them had actually been able to sit down at the dining table together.

Music once again took its place in the flat as well. Mary was fond of putting in earbuds and singing to her iPod as she dusted or hoovered. She hummed along when she read. It actually put John at some ease while he worked on the case.

Currently he sat with his laptop open, some files spread across the coffee table, and had a cup of tea at his right hand. It was still steaming when he put it to his lips and he sputtered it a little. "Damn it," he grumbled and set it aside licking his scalded lips.

"Are you alright, John?" Mary piped up, poking her head around the corner from the kitchen and peering in at him.

"Fine, tea was hot." He sunk further down in the couch and typed away at science of deduction. Not much progress had been made on the case as there wasn't a scene and nothing had yet been attempted. Soon, the only thing John would be able to suggest would be to lure them out and get them to make a move. 

He glanced up when he heard Mary moving about. She was coming over with the container of milk and he continued to watch as she dribbled a little into his cup, instantly cooling the contents.

"Thank you." His dull hazel-gold eyes peered up at her. Each little movement of hers seemed perfect.

Mary smiled down at him. "You're welcome." Her lips were amazingly bowed in their smile, and it put happy crinkles in the corners of her eyes. Today, her near black hair was down in loose curls around her shoulders, bangs cutting across to one side. Her skin looked impossibly beautifully pale with it down like that.

John had to resist the urge to reach out and touch her cheek, to see if it felt as soft as it looked. Instead, he took the tea cup back into those would-be-wandering hands and sipped at the contents. "I think there's a possibility that family could be involved, but I need more data before we make any sort of move."

Mary peered at John and nodded. "Alright, and thank you again for all of this. You've been wonderful about it."

John smiled, "Well, I wouldn't get too happy about things just yet. I have to ask, is there anyone in the family you can think of that would do something against you for the money, properties, and businesses?"

She took a seat and seemed to be thinking rather hard about this. She sighed, brushing her swooping bangs back from her face. "I don't know. I suppose an uncle, my father's brother. He and his sons were expecting to inherit quite a bit of the company…"

"Mary, would you care to have dinner with me?" John asked out of nowhere. He even surprised himself by asking and held his breath immediately after.

"I would like that very much, Dr. Watson." Mary didn't seem so surprised. She got up and headed for her room, Sherlock's old room. "I'll just get ready and we can talk more about theories at the restaurant?"

"Perfect, yeah."

He walked into the hall where the stairwell to his own room was and paused. He could hear movement down the hall, could hear Mary shuffling through clothing. He imagined her slipping out of the summer dress she had been wearing, the fabric dripping off her slender shoulders and cascading to her delicate feet in a pool of cloth. Her shoulders would be arched backward, pressing in towards one another and it would make her lower back arch as well, presenting a silk clad bottom. Mary Morstan had worn jeans just once in the few days John had come to know her, and he had unabashedly checked out the tight rear end in them. He'd done so without her knowledge of course. He wasn't so crude as to openly jeer at a woman. That would be rude.

Shaking the thoughts from his head as his own jeans were becoming quite tight in a very particular area, John headed up his stairs. He thought he might grab a shower before going as he'd been laying about the flat all day.

Stripping in the bathroom, before the mirror, John took a good look at himself. He had thinned out since The Fall. And since taking on further cases, he'd gotten into the occasional rugby game again. There was a league he joined, some old University boys, and it kept him in pretty fair shape. He was still "soft", in places, particularly about the hips and stomach. His hair was still that odd color someone had once described to him as 'dishwater', but it was all fine with him. It suited him, he thought. His chest had just the lightest dusting of blonde hair, and a trail of it went from his navel to beneath his pant line. His legs were thick from sports and had the same light blonde hairs. Overall, John thought he would have no qualms with getting naked in front of a lover. Even Mary Morstan. He tried to push her from his mind again, but found it painstakingly difficult to do so. This must have been what Sherlock felt like when he was trying to get his mind straight and would throw himself into his violin or over the microscope and not speak for days on end.

The warm water of the shower released some of John's tension but he still had to have a good wank in there to calm his brain down enough to think straight.

That was all ruined when he came down in a nice pair of slacks and a new gray jumper to spot Mary, powdered and dressed for a night out. She was in a shorter, blood red dress. The color of blood after it had reached oxygen and was sitting in a little bubble on the skin, drying there. Her shoes were black, high, putting her at his height, or just a touch over. Her dark hair was pulled up in a tall ponytail, curls touching the base of her skull, and bangs swooping over her brows accenting those deliciously shiny gray eyes. The lipstick is where John got stuck staring. It was a standout red. Much more vibrant than her dress. It sat there, begging to be looked at, to be kissed, and John almost lost it right there.

"You um, you look very nice." He managed with some difficulty to compliment her, but she didn't seem to notice his trip up.

"Thank you." She waited a moment and John blinked rapidly then stuck out his elbow, which she promptly took. "So where are you taking me, Dr. Watson?"

"Please, it's just…John. And I have a nice place just down the road a ways. Angelo's. Makes the best pasta. I've eaten there a lot, especially after cases, or during."

Mary nodded and followed him, relying completely on his seeming expertise. 


	4. Not So Sociopathic

Not So Sociopathic-

"Sherlock," Molly called out from her bedroom. "Can you come here a moment?"

With a sigh of boredom, Sherlock pulled himself from the vials of mixing chemicals and dropped the notebook on the tabletop. With a flinch he stood in the doorway of her room, hands tucked behind him, one grasping the other over his lower back. "Yes?"

"What. Is. This?" Molly frowned at him, holding out a wet handkerchief.

"Er…" Sherlock stepped into the room. He leaned down to inhale the smell of the rag deeply, and then jerked back quickly. "That would be chloroform." He began to swoon and blinked rapidly trying to settle back into his surroundings. His hand reached out and gripped at the doorway. "Forgot I left that in the bathroom…"

He watched Molly drop the cloth and come for him, taking him about the waist. "Sherlock, you great idiot…" She moved him over to the bed just as his eyes were falling shut.

Sherlock woke curled on a bed, head comfortably buried in fluffy white pillows and body wrapped in a quilt. He reached up to his head, rubbing his slightly aching temples and tried to sit up. When the world spun about him, he stopped attempting and lay back, just breathing. He felt slightly like throwing up but squelched the feeling with a run of his hand over his face.

"Oh bloody hell…" He murmured into his hand. Moving it away from his face, he looked about where he could without sitting up. Molly's room. He was sure of it from the curtains across the window and the picture of her parents on the bedside table.

When he felt his body settling, Sherlock sat himself up against the headboard carefully. Sunlight was still pouring through the window into the room so he knew he couldn't have been out too long. The door to the room was cracked open, but he couldn't hear Molly outside of it. Then the bed next to him moved and he glanced down. She was there, napping next to him. Sherlock had apparently pulled most of the blanket from her and she was huddled in on herself, knees tucked up almost to her chest.

Frowning he pulled the quilt aside and laid it gently atop her sleeping form. He looked around for that handkerchief and saw it on top of her dresser. He would have to get rid of that. The experiment he was going to use it for would no longer work with it contaminated now. Sighing at the loss of the project, he swung his legs over the bed and went to get up. He barely had his feet on the ground and body off the edge of the bed when a hand reached out and tugged him backwards. He sat back down and glanced over his shoulder. Molly's eyes were barely cracked open, but she had a strong grip on the sleeve of his button-up.

"Don't go yet. I'm cold."

"I gave you the blanket." He started to move again, but she tugged harder this time.

"I'm still cold. Lay with me?"

He stared down at her, at those lips he'd kissed a total of three times now. Twice was to prove a point. Once- the last time, two days ago- was because he'd wanted to. Now he saw them again, a slight pout come over them as she watched him and he couldn't help but want that again. His own lips twitched at the thought and so he consented. Rolling over he pulled up the quilt and lay next to Molly. He put an arm over her shoulders and found that she tucked herself neatly up to his chest. Her head sat on his shoulder and her brown hair was tousled between the two of them.

Sherlock buried his nose into it and inhaled. This scent was much better than that kerchief. Aside from the rosy smell of her shampoo, Sherlock picked up the natural sweet pheromones she put off. Soon the heat pooled between them and he had to push the quilt off himself.

Molly dragged it the rest of the way off the bed and then titled her head up so she could look at him. He stared back down at her with an almost blank look. His mind was racing though. He was taking in every little detail of her face, the way her eyes shone, the way her lips moved subtly with thought, and the tiniest of wrinkles that formed with each passing emotion. She was such an open book when you really sat and watched her. Sherlock should have been able to read her this easy much earlier. It proved even further how distant he was until John came about. John was the start of Sherlock looking closer at friends, not just who they were, but what they were thinking and feeling. Now, in the last few weeks with Molly, he couldn't help but read into her feelings. Right now, with those eyes open wide, her eyebrows ever so slightly furrowed, and her mouth in a little bow of soft movements, he knew she was waiting for him. Perhaps she was thinking she should initiate, but he knew she wouldn't. He knew that she was too gentle a woman for that.

Now, Sherlock was not a stranger to sex, no matter how Mycroft pushed the idea that the man was a virgin and unfamiliar with the topic. But, Sherlock had not found someone he really enjoyed it with. That made him hesitant towards starting anything with Molly despite the growing tightness in his groin, despite the desire he felt emotionally. Sex had only ever been a release of the physical and never a connection of the emotional as far as he'd come to experience it. Molly deserved more than that.

And yet….

Molly let her eyes slowly close and tilted her chin up just a touch further, putting her lips within millimeters of Sherlock's. He closed the distance with only a tip of his head, letting his lips rest softly against her pouty warm ones. They were soft and giving. Molly was soft altogether. Sherlock's other experiences with other women, and even a few men, had been rougher and quicker.

He took his time with the kiss, at first the two just sat with skin touching and breath mixing between them. Then he moved his mouth, massaging against hers. Her lips parted easily and she tilted sideways a bit for him so that their lips locked succinctly. He let the tip of his tongue run lightly across her bottom lip, wetting the kiss and allowing for the easier slide of skin. When he dipped it out again, he met the warmth of Molly's and it was all just mind-blowing. Each slow, new move into this kiss sent shocks of feeling down Sherlock's spine.

A delicate but sure hand wound its way up into Sherlock's hair and tugged at it lightly. He was pulled closer to her, lilting slightly and having to put a hand down between them to keep him upwards. He thought it took away too much from the kiss. Grabbing her hips he dragged them up onto his hips.

"I think this will work better," he said looking into her eyes.

Molly smiled and nodded. She shifted on his lap, knees squeezing about his slim waist. She felt warm against him and Sherlock felt things tighten even further. He knew she must feel him, against her center but she didn't seem to mind one bit. Instead of moving away, she leaned in, putting her hands to his chest and captured his lips again. Her fingers thread into the charcoal gray t-shirt he was wearing and yanked him closer to her. Their bodies melded in heat together and Sherlock thought this was much better. He wrapped his own arms about her back, long violinist fingers treading paths across her back.

She shivered once under his touch and Sherlock pulled back. He had to look at her. He had to see her reaction and deduce what she was thinking. Molly smiled at him, not a big smile, just a soft twitch up of her lips but it was genuine. Reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, Molly sat back a little bit. 

"Is this… is this okay, Sherlock?"

"Yes," he breathed out heavily, hands still on her, resting now on her lower back.

She nodded slowly and then leaned back in. It became quick, needy. Sherlock could feel her hands in his hair, then down his shoulders, gripping them as she went up on her knees. It pushed his head back, making him rely on the headboard of the bed to stay up. She hunched over him, taking control as she kissed him fiercely. A heat was building between them and she delved her tongue into his mouth. Her tongue was small but pliant, and warm. It ran across the roof of his mouth and Sherlock found that tickled slightly. It made him squirm and she laughed, her mouth still over his.

The sensations were starting to make his head spin and he found that it was not enough. He needed more from her and he needed it soon. His body felt like it was going to explode with all of these sensations building up.

"Molly I need…"

She pulled back just enough so that he could speak; their noses were touching as they tried to look into one another's eyes. "Yes?" Her voice was husky, deeper, and sexy. It sent a jolt through Sherlock that ended in a tingling in his groin.

"You. I need you."

This time her smile was wide. It was so much like the one she wore when she was hiding that she was unhappy, but this one reached her eyes. It was so real that Sherlock felt even more for her than the kissing could ever provoke from him.

"And there you are, Molly Hooper. Let me have you."

"I was always yours."

Sherlock could not breathe. If Molly hadn't suddenly taken control, he wasn't sure he would have been able to start again. She moved off of the bed and stood at the foot of it, just watching him for a moment. Sherlock lay back against the headboard still, eyes on her face. Then they moved down as she reached for the hem of her shirt and slowly pulled it over her head.

Her skin looked pale and soft. He wanted to reach out for it now, but she wasn't moving any closer. So he sat and watched, as it seemed to be what she wanted from him. Her eyes held him captive there on the bed, a stare so intense he thought maybe, just maybe, she could be in the wild reckless head of his with him.

Statistics started to pour in, statistics on sex, on love, on relationships, and on sociopaths. Numbers invaded his sense of her and he grimaced, shutting it out as he leaned forward and tried to take in only her. She fit well into the Fibonacci spiral, each feature perfect in its dimensions- she was his perfect little number and his eyes bounced from eyes, to lips, to her whole body, to those wide inviting hips. He crawled across the bed to her as her hands went behind her back to undo her bra.

He heard her gasp as he put his lips to her solar plexus area, dabbing kisses there and inhaling those perfect rose scents and sweet pheromones. He felt her bra drop on his head and he chuckled against her stomach, and Molly laughed with him, picking it up and tossing it somewhere. Her hands went into his hair and that sent tendrils of warmth through him once again. He kissed down to her navel and then pulled his legs around, swinging them off the bed so that Molly stood between them. Sherlock slowly undid the button and zipper to her khakis.

They slid down her legs slowly, bunching at her bare feet. He watched her toes work them off her and she stood before him now in just her pink pants. They were cute. They were her. Molly reached out and tugged his shirt up. He lifted his arms up so she could remove it. When it was gone, Molly pushed him back on the bed and he fell, the bed comfortable and inviting. He looked down his body as she started to work his trousers and pants off.

Sherlock had the capacity to think something was cute, even though he didn't often squeal over little animals or children. Molly, working his trousers off with her tongue between her teeth in concentration, hair falling about her face… that was cute.

He was splendidly surprised to find that now his mind was occupying itself entirely with the two of them. He had so many emotions to read from her, especially when she moved up and Sherlock let his hands wander down to her hips, sliding her pink pants off. That face, which was usually never tinged with embarrassment, was pink. He loved it.

With no clothes between them, Sherlock's mind was starting to go into overload again. Her skin was so soft against his, and straddling his hips, her warmth was right on his hardened erection. It felt silken, heavenly. He ground his hips up, rubbing against her. Her escaped groan had Sherlock tossing his head back, and shutting his eyes. This was what he need, here, all of her. Taking control, he flipped her over, pulling them both up the bed comfortably. Then he dove down on her skin, tasting his way to her warm center. She wriggled happily under him, and Sherlock didn't even have to look up at her face to read her. Molly's body and voice were enough direction for him.

He came back up breathless, and Molly was shivering. Putting his wet lips to Molly's lips, he kissed her tasting everything about her all at once. Slowly he lowered his hips down to hers and took his time with her. He noted every toss back of the head, every gasp, every little thing that made Molly explode with bliss. And he used that all to her advantage, taking up most of the afternoon, he would think.


End file.
